Sensory
by DianaLecter
Summary: Tossed feelings after 'Hannibal' - the movie. (Goes back and forth from Starling POV to Lecter POV) Follows canon
1. Chapter One

I awake to the darkness with a startled breath lodged in my throat

I awake to the darkness with a startled breath lodged in my throat.I do not know what has provoked me from my sleep, but I do know what I sensed.

I sensed him here, standing over me.Watching me in the blessed silence.But alas, I sit, the noted sole occupant of the room.No further investigation is required to confirm that.

I am alone.

It's strange…being left to yourself while constantly surrounded by people.How can you classify yourself as lonely when you know no other definition?My life has never changed; therefore my intellect expands to nothing else.I know silence and screams, pain and sorrow.There is no conflict when no further is expected.Required.Demanded.

This is not the first time I have awakened to the darkness, nor will it be my last.I am trapped here in my self-made prison of personal destruction, practically having laid out the foundation myself through acts of foolishness.

Awake, I roll over, grasping a pillow to my chest.Pain strikes me to think where I could be, where I want to be…where I should be.

My God, could I really have been that naïve?

I always suffer a horrendous period of indecision when it comes to any decision or offer that might present itself.Even though what I recognize as the one opportunity of happiness in my life wasn't a clear proposal at the time, I must assume thorough thinking would have produced a more sensible answer.

I lie here in the endless darkness, knowing the window for sleep grows distant with each passing second.There is a designated interlude that shrinks after the moment of initial awakening.Once closed, sleep is no longer an option.I am destined to lie awake all night.It is my hell, my punishment, my deserved deliverance.

This does not bother me.I have grown accustomed to inhibited awakenings.The darkness greets me like an old reliable chum at the airport.Yes, Mr. Darkness and I have become most acquainted over the past few weeks.I tell him my problems and he, the ever-cooperative patron, abides with an understanding ear.

It gets to a point where you no longer question the boundary between sorrow and schizophrenia.I won't worry unless my silent friend answers my calls.Even then, I can't say it will be a full surprise.

With a sigh, I roll to my back, relinquishing my hold on the pillow.For the millionth noted time, my mind asks the great ominous question.The question that leaves me perhaps emptier than I already feel.

How did I get here?

I hate that question, for unlike the other numerous inquiries that plague me, I DO know the answer.I am here because of my goddamned morality, because I hadn't the courage to accept what I now recognize as the opportunity of a lifetime.I grew so accustomed to rejection that any other language was impossible to decipher.I am here because of my spite, my hate, my words of vindictiveness and confusion.

I'm here because I was too stupid to say something meaningful, something that would beg him never to stop.Never for a thousand years.

Who knew ethics would be my undoing?Where was I when the dominant decisions of my life were being dictated?

Sensibility corrupted me.I was so set on doing what I _knew _was right.What society had convinced me was the correct path.Because of those damned morals, I lost everything.

Why didn't anyone tell me the world no longer gives a damn about ethics?Have I really been out of the loop that long?

As much as I would like to, I can't blame him.He spent ten years trying to show me the light.Oh, I see it now.Too long ignored, and too late acknowledged.

I close my eyes and send a cosmic message to the void.Should my admittance be heard in this vast land of nothingness, should I be forgiven for the years of ignorance and neglect…what then?

I hear my breath shiver as it escapes my trembling lips.The scent of unshed tears hovers over my face.Capturing myself before the waterworks can be released, I send my question, my one single statement, hoping against hope in accordance with Mr. Silence that somewhere I might be heard.

_I'm sorry.Oh God, I'm so sorry._

_ _

__It takes that for the tears to escape.I am helpless to stop it.The sound of my muffled sobs rings into the dead silence.Oh God, if I could…I would do anything to take back the heartless thing I said, the careless decision that cost me my very self-worth.My chest constricts with pain at the air my tears relentlessly steal.

_Where are you?When I need you the most, where are you?Come back…please come back!_

_ _

__Defeated at my lack of a response, I again roll to my side, clutching my pillow to my chest once more.It doesn't matter.He has his answer, and he's never coming back.

I have no one to blame but myself.This is why I cannot feel self-pity, or resent anyone.It was my mistake.I only realized too late.

I'd give my all to rectify it, every bit of myself to make it right.

Closing my eyes, my tears crust and dry.Soon, I will find sleep.Sleep that will carry me until six am, sleep that I will live on all through tomorrow as I face my shamble of a life.To live each day without _living._

__

__I sleep, surrounded in the blessed silence of the lambs, but subjected to a cry that cuts even deeper, something I cannot heal.Something I cannot fix.I recognize it for what it is, what it was and what it could be.Could HAVE been.

It is myself.

***


	2. Chapter Two

I awake to the darkness with a startled breath lodged in my throat

Our stars remain very much the same.

I must wonder if she realizes that.If she gazes at the stars and reflects.I know she does not sleep well, but she seems content merely gazing in the darkness during the moments of insomnia.

Or so she has in the past.I admit I have not visited her in quite a while.The temptation is near intolerable at times.Hmmm…I wonder how she might react now.If the lambs still scream, and if so, what ailment causes their plight.It is displeasing to be at such ends when it comes to her affairs.I am not used to this, nor do I wish to be.

Nonetheless, I will not concede pride to watch after her.

Much to my discouragement, it is manifest that while her senses have developed certain acuteness, she remains unready. 

Unready for me.What a devastating notion.

I suppose it's promising to note there is one person in this world not so terribly hopeless and predictable, and though I wish for her to remain all herself, it does grow rather tiresome repeating the same cycle of tedious redundancy.Watching her obliteration truly is painful, most especially with the knowledge of what could have been.How I might have saved her from this slow depersonalization.

It was her choice.Whether the product of her stubborn system of ethics or her simple dedication to the values of her upbringing, I do not know.Perhaps it is cleanly because she is as mulish as I am, and to forfeit her ignorance for the truth was to firstly acknowledge that she was wrong from the beginning.

Humanity does not allow such simplicity.

I have caused her pain, and for that, I will never forgive myself.In her eyes I stand the epitome of her troubles, the sorrow and grief life has caused her.Perhaps her career would have escalated without my input, suffering the causality of Catherine Martin.While it remains iniquitous that judgment is surpassed only on gender, especially in these supposed modern days, her success may or may not have been determined with the saving of that girl.

However, I'm sure she does not regret it.That is the pureness of Clarice, what I admire the most, however perverse that might seem.Though it cost her whatever career she might have obtained in her dreamland, she would not take back her actions knowing what she does today.

I wonder…with the following of our last encounter, the burns she's survived from those masked as colleagues, even friends, would she have ended our evening differently?

I close my eyes.Against the darkness, I still outline the image of Orion. 

When did I become so passive?Never did I think a woman could have the affect on me that she does, that I would risk what I have risked for her.I ached for freedom for eight long years, and while meeting her initiated the end of an insufferable confinement, what followed never satisfied me.

I thought I had the answer.It is distressful, though oddly entertaining that such intrigues remain unknown to me.She is the great mystery, one I will pine for perhaps until I die, even if it from afar.

My destruction came in such a simple package.I am not bothered with realization.If I were, I would not be here now.

I have attempted anger at what came of it all.Anger toward her for her lack of understanding, but it always reverts to compassion and sympathy.She will be stuck in her world of bigotry and politics for the rest of her life, trapped in a cage for all to gawk at.Yes, she is the great survivor.She is the strongest person I know.And for all her intelligence, she remains blind.

I have attempted hatred, and it still amuses me to note how much that accomplished.In the duration of my life, I don't believe any project undertaken in the past ever resulted in such failure.This surprises me, pleasingly so.

I have attempted to forget, but my will does not allow that.Though remote, she might need me someday.

I scoff.Need me.She needs no one.I note this is gratifying, however tragic.My Clarice is strong, has and will overcome her obstacles.

I set her back, confused her, alienated her, manipulated her, and desired her as much as a man could desire a woman.Beyond the boundaries of my rationality, all reason suddenly seemed incoherent.My actions were result of that.

I open my eyes, oddly disturbed.For years, I have joked of losing my hearing.Tonight I question the senses I have grown to recognize as impeccable, beyond the capabilities of ordinary man.

Ever, I still my breathing to hear, that being perhaps the only sound, however minimal, that obstructs the silence of the room.While I do not hear anything, something within me stirs.

I am not a believer of telepathy.While I might entertain thoughts of time revolutionizing itself to fit my needs, my intense yearning to see my sister once more, feeble scientific theories such as the expansion of one's mind might prove engaging science fiction, but I have never accepted it as fact.

Tonight, I consider.

I know she is awake.Awake to the darkness, to the lack of an impression in the pillow neighboring hers.It saddens though sinfully pleases me that she remains alone.I cannot stand the thought of her with someone who does not appreciate her, and albeit, should such a man enter her life…I am in no place to intervene.

It would be difficult.

That, however, does not concern me.I have little faith in the pawns of mankind that someone would look beyond her lovely exterior to note what truly makes her special.Anyone less than that does not value my apprehension.

She cries to the darkness, though not audibly.She is in pain, and no one stands for her, with her.From here, thousands of miles away, I can smell her tears.Self-pity, remorse, and unbridled sadness…she cries for these things.Cries but hears no answer.

I wish fervently to be with her.Dare I hope?Of course not.Hope is for fools.

Still, I smile.I have found reason.This merits consideration.

Little Starling.My dearest Clarice.Indeed, our stars are the same.Perhaps that has something to do with it.

I'd like to think so.

***


	3. Chapter Three

I awake to the darkness with a startled breath lodged in my throat

Can you hear me?

Sleep is an impossibility.I knew this from the moment of awakening.After a few minutes of restless tossing and turning, I give up, throwing the blankets off my over-heated form, not comforted with the cold air that hits me.I stand, wobbly from unattended sleepiness, blinded by dried tears.Trailing out of the room and down the staircase, I note the faint streaks of dawn beginning to bleed out the stars.

I wonder if it's still dark where you are.I see you standing near your window, as I know you hardly sleep.My breath exhilarates.I enjoy seeing you, even if it is an image I conjecture myself.It gives me subtle pleasure…knowing somewhere you are at peace.

Are you at peace?

I sigh.Whether or not I fully hope so, I'm still trying to decide.

I don't deserve to be remembered, but I can't help but hope somewhere you're thinking of me.

Entering the kitchen, I clumsily flip on the switch, setting my coffee maker to provide me with a source of caffeine in the next few minutes.The clock on my microwave reads slightly passed 4:30 AM.

I wrap my arms around myself and travel to the window.Though it is growing lighter out, all remains mostly dark.Were it later in the morning I might indulge in a jog.Not now.Too early.

I close my eyes and think of you.It's useless trying not to.You haunt my every thought, notion, second.As if I'm trapped in a corner and you have me pinned.I am captured in your gaze and I cannot look away.We've already traveled that road, haven't we?It sounds too familiar.

Why do I suddenly feel ill?

I dislike this unhealthy, obsessive behavior.Nevertheless, that changes nothing.I know I tend to dwell in the past…I have since my father died.But that hardly crippled my ability to function, move, breathe.Not like now.Now when I cannot focus on the simplest of tasks.

I've become the worst version of myself.

Can you hear me?Will you answer?

I wait.No…I don't suppose you will.

My coffee is ready and I gulp the first cup down hurriedly, ignoring the burning sensation it delivers my tongue.The pain, mild as it is, doesn't register until I move to pour another serving.

It's foolish and adolescent, thinking you can hear me.I never speak these feelings aloud, lest what little reasoning I have left be driven away.Oh, I wish you could, though.Perhaps if you did, these conversations with the idealized version of you I have running though my head would cease.

I would like to maintain some sanity.Not much, mind you.Just enough to pass on the streets.

Morality be damned.What has it done for me lately?

I sigh, drinking my second cup of coffee with steady patience.The caffeine fails to kick in as I hoped, and I find myself tempted with sleep.

To return to nightmares?No.I'll stay here and watch the sunrise, hoping somewhere you're doing the same.

If we watch the break of dawn, then you are nearer than I thought.I find myself hoping feverishly that this is so.

With the chance, however slim, that you will answer, I'll ask once more.

Can you hear me?

Don't you hear it; how can you not?My cries, my pleas…often to the anonymous face of Mr. Darkness.I beg you to return, issuing my thousand apologies and never-ending imploration for forgiveness, the same redemption I know I don't deserve.Tell me you can hear me…please.

Can you see me?

I suppose not…surely if you could see me, I would not be here, consoling a lonely cup of non-conversational coffee.My eyes reveal too much, though I care to conceal nothing.Why should I bother?Every time I glance in the mirror, I see myself clearly.What I hid for years.What you saw for years.I question my intelligence.Was I really that blind?

It doesn't matter anymore.I did what I was supposed to do every damned minute of my career.On a sour note, my occupation remains annoyingly intact.I know you wouldn't approve, but neither would they.I can't please anyone anymore…I walk the halls of Quantico every day with less conviction, trying to survive the snickers, rumors, and rude comments while keeping control of my longings for you.

Do you see that?Do you hear that?I hope so.

Can you smell me?

Sometimes I sense you near, so close I feel your breath on my neck.The sensation warms me in that sad, dreary way that confirms everything I could have had has officially gone to crap.

You commented once on my skin cream and the L'Air du Temps I used to wear.Is that how you remember me?I hope not.Do you remember me in Armani, drenched with the foul stench of confusion, annoyance, and God forbid, hatred?Oh God, I hope not.I want you to see me NOW, to smell the revolution I feel TODAY.If we never see each other again…I want you to remember me like this.Liberated – ready for you even if I am never allowed my forgiveness.

That's a horrible thought.

So horrible because it's true?Oh, I hope not.

I've been hoping a lot recently.Wonder if you've noticed.

Can you taste me?If so, do I run bitter in your mouth?Am I chilled…too frigid to enjoy?So long I've feared that's true…that my coldness repels others.On a level, I wanted it to.I wanted to exercise I was no pushover, and I did so in such a convincing away that I pushed YOU away forever.I was cold to you.Can't you see I was afraid?Can't you see I still am?That's what brings me here…what wakes me in the morning with disturbing thoughts of the forever condemned.I feel so shut out…but I did that to myself.

Do I taste of failure? …Never mind…I don't want to know.Too much in my life has tasted of failure.I don't care to know if I've adapted the taste, myself. 

Can you feel me?

That is the most vague question.I thought once we shared something that could not be severed with cleavers.Was I so misled?

I smile sadly, finishing my coffee.

Take me with you.Wherever you are, whoever you are, wherever you're going and by whatever means you have to get there, take me with you.I fear my final destruction nearing.You are my truth.The only honesty in my life.

Please be there.Please be listening.

I place my coffee cup in the sink after rinsing it clean.With a sigh, I close my eyes, discouraged by the ineffective caffeine, saddened by my lack of any answer.I want you to feel me more than anything…to recognize my pain…to come and offer your healing touch.

Shaking my head, I dismiss these futile thoughts.Perhaps it would be best to try and sleep…at least for a half hour.

As I move to the door, flicking off the light, a shudder crawls up my spine, unprovoked.I pause, leaning backward as though trying to fall into it.For a fleeting minute, my heart pounds as my pulse races.When the sensation leaves, I find myself smiling.

Hear me.Please?

I feel you, too.

***


	4. Chapter Four

I awake to the darkness with a startled breath lodged in my throat

The wind whispers through the trees and springs a few small dust storms to life along the ground.I, remaining perfectly stationary, barely flicker my recognition, though nature has always spoken to me.Especially in the years of my release, I find a certain amount of serenity, basking in the warmth of what many would shamelessly call God's glory.

Discarding this, I instead turn my attention to the sound of an approaching being.Judging by scent, I summarize safely that she is perhaps twenty yards away, jogging at a steady pace that many would envy.I have always admired Clarice's high metabolism, even in darker times.

I hear her breaths now, heavy though far from tired.She enjoys applying herself.I suspect it's the only peace she knows anymore.

I feel myself smiling as she passes, enjoying the sight she provides.Her chest heaves deep, healthy breaths to display her natural fatigue.Drawing in the air before me, I catch a whiff of her scent, and it nearly drives me over the edge.I know she cannot see me, and that only escalates the sensation.The perverse fun of watching but not being observed myself is terribly entertaining.

I told her once that I traveled halfway around the world to watch her run.This remains true.Seeing Clarice in this position of resolved freedom, even if it is brief, pleases me greatly.

However, my pleasure is disturbed when I see her face.This is not the face of the woman I left at the lake house of her late nemesis.While I didn't expect her to be all sunshine in the middle of physical exertion, other emotions line her features besides exhaustion.

Never have I known Clarice to look so…sad.The sight truly plagues me, making it almost difficult to breathe for a minute.And then it's not just the sadness.The air I take in smells of dried tears, and the horrid stench of defeat.

Realization strikes me, and it isn't pleasant.I have caused this grief in her life, whatever it is.I brought her here, simply by my persistent coming and going.It was never my purpose to place her in such a position.I wanted to bring her enlightenment, reason, happiness.Though I cannot faithfully say all my motives were so noble, never did I suspect the drastic reverse would occur.I am not accustomed to failure.The taste runs bitter in my mouth.

I watch as she passes, uncertain if I should follow.My better senses tell me to turn and pace in the opposite direction, to leave her life once and for all and correct the massive wrong I have already caused.If not for me, she might have prospered in this life she chose, despite its corruption.

But against my keener senses, what I know is in her best interest; I follow, condemning my actions with every step.Am I really that set to craft her destruction?I don't want to consider it in those terms, but it seems most logical, given my actions.

Perhaps I want to prove to myself it is not entirely my fault that she is here.I caution in advance that I might not like what I see.

I stop when I have a considerable view of her Mustang.The temptation is with me to taste her steering wheel once more, yet I manage to control the urge.If she takes a minute to look, discovering my presence will be easy.However, this is not an area of concern.Though I know Clarice has an uncanny sixth sense about such things, I do not suspect she is alert to it today.

When she comes into view, I feel the pain again.Oh, how I do detest seeing her like this.

Where I thought she would simply get into the vehicle and drive away, she manages to surprise me, giving me an air of self-awareness.Subconsciously, I take a step back, though noting it does little good.Though I am a safe distance away, a more thorough search would undoubtedly result in my discovery.

Clarice turns her back to her car, reclining against the driver's side window.She props her elbows to the hood, her head hanging as though ashamed of herself.After a minute, her body breaks into subtle shakes.I feel my knees buckle though I maintain control.

I cannot tolerate this.Seeing her weep breaks me wholly.I yearn to come forward, to take her into my arms and offer her my shoulder.She is uncannily difficult to read today, and perhaps if I knew more, I would step forward.

An alien cowardly air runs through me.I do not want her to know I'm here, for I fear the weight of a heavy blame.The taste is sour, one I have not sampled in some time.I decide its wear is odd and slightly loose on my frame.

Truly I am my own worst enemy.

Still, I perfect my immobility and swiftly command myself to remain stationary.

I am glad when she moves inside her car.Should she have stood another moment, I fear my will would have broken.Selfishly, I also concede I cannot stand to watch her grieve, and the sight became one of repulse.Not because I looking at her is unbearable.I have made several days pass with such a pleasant activity.No, it is the burden of my guilt.

It feels bizarre, this eerie responsibility.I have killed people as though they were troublesome insects, and still neglect to feel a drop of culpability for any of my actions.They were pawns to me, have never accumulated to more.But Clarice…though she remains physically unscathed from any encounter…the burden I carry makes it difficult to stand still.

I decide, perhaps irrationally, to follow Clarice home.I am determined to reassure myself of her well being, though I have seen enough to suggest the contrary.In spite of myself, I look forward to visiting her quaint living space again.It has been too long.

She concerns me…upon arriving home; she trails immediately to the upper levels of the household, presumably to nap.In watching her over the past few years, I recognize this as entirely out of character.She is accustomed to late nights and early risings.Without needing to refer to my wristwatch, I register it is no later than four o'clock in the afternoon.

I pause.Should I enter?This might only endanger her rationality, should any remain.

I chuckle to myself.It seems perverse that I would care to preserve her sound mind.I spent ten years trying to break her, and I did.I broke her so well that the pieces may well never mend together.Never had I considered the weight of success.

Entering the household, I revel in the silence.As a psychiatrist, I note excessive sleep is a sign of depression, and again I flutter with concern.Not a sound is made as I travel upstairs.

I peer through the crack in her bedroom door.Clarice sleeps.

Though the scene distresses me, it also gives me a feeling of peace.The dried tears crust on her face.I yearn to cross the threshold and take her into my arms, to hold her and grasp this tranquility, to make it both of ours.Greed consumes me, and I am overwhelmed with need of her.

In her sleep, Clarice makes a blessed sound of content.I wonder if perhaps my presence can chase away nightmares.The thought is ludicrous, of course, but I'd like to think so.

Then she surprises me.Smiling, still the image of incorruptible serenity, my name spills from her lips.My given name.

The sound makes me smile.That pales in comparison to the massive relief.I know that instant my worries were in vain.I know that instant she holds me accountable for nothing of her grief, and feel honored I should be given this.

Still, my guilt weighs.While she does not blame me, that hardly protects me from myself.

I recognize the calling for what it is.I'm not sure how yet to react, but I do not hide my glee.

She remains in the sanctified silence of the lambs, and I, watching always, wait for my time to act.

There will be another time.I will see to that.

Sleep my angel.Things will be well soon.

***


	5. Chapter Five

I awake to the darkness with a startled breath lodged in my throat

When I wake, I feel a resounding breath of relief in my throat that it is not to the darkness.Groggy and still clouded with sleep, I sit up slowly.Twilight strikes the closed blinds, and without needing to check my watch, I gather it's around 5:30 in the afternoon.I have slept for roughly an hour, and that doesn't surprise me.I am not typically a nap person.Unless I have had an exceptionally bad day at work, I summarize night is for sleeping.During the day, there is too much to do.

At least, that's how I used to look at it.Despite my better senses, I have found myself without energy in recent days.All I want to do is rest.I know this is a symptom of depression, and at this point, I neglect to be surprised.

What about waking in the dead of night to the sound of my tears?What about losing my capability to focus because of my mindless dwelling on mistakes I can never correct?What about needing to keep constantly busy lest my sorrow catches up with me?What about feeling so sorry for myself that it turns into some deranged version of self-hatred?Are those symptoms for depression?

When did my life become so disorganized?When did I lose focus on what is really important?

There is no point in reciting this to myself.I know it all already, and need no reminders.

What I do need, though, is a good therapist.

Or psychiatrist.

Or man-eating psychiatrist.

I grumble at myself, closing my eyes.There is no use.Even if I did seek therapy, I wouldn't be able to sit through the session without wishing the line of questioning was coming from your lips and not some faceless person.Not someone who doesn't know me at all.I don't want to be judged right now.

Goddammit, where are you?

Determined to keep awake, I stagger for the door.Having been drunk several times in my life, I concede to wonder if I consumed that Jack Daniels Ardelia brought home a few days ago.No…I'm trying to give that stuff up.It's downstairs where I have no intention of touching it.

Sometimes I wonder if it would be easier to become an alcoholic, but I've seen the consequences of that.My brother ended up in rehab several years back…a lot of years back.I was still in the orphanage.At some point, he stopped writing me.I never knew what became of him.

It's aggravating…knowing I have family out there but not knowing where they are.Hell, they could all be dead and no one would tell me.One of the greater disadvantages of orphanages.We lose track of each other.

Besides, with everything I have to worry about, adding an additional charge of liquor will do little help to my bankbook or state of mind.In my foggy thought process, I'm glad that much remains obvious.

I grin to myself, genuine, the first in several days.Through everything, I do have some wits about me.Thank God for that.

I stop at my door and inhale a deep breath.

I blink.

I smile.

I smell you.The fragrance is sweet, heavy.You stood there for a while, didn't you?Watching me as I slept…watching me as I dreamt of you.

The sensation that grips me makes my knees buckle, and I cannot stand.I struggle for balance but lose, my body plummeting to the floor, hard enough to hurt, or at least make me frown…but I barely notice.

You were here.You WERE here.

You heard me.

The tears that spring to my eyes are not of sadness now.I hesitate to call it relief, for the word is so small.Two syllables hardly does justice to how I feel.To what I feel.You were here, by God, so you heard me.You've heard everything.I was foolish to believe you couldn't.

You've always heard me, even when I didn't hear myself.

After the reprieve dwindles, I find myself lost once more, even a little angry.Do I have a right to be angry?Probably not.But that doesn't excuse the fact that you WERE here…where are you now?Now that I'm awake, now than I can tell you all those things you need to hear?Why do you insist on prolonging my torture?

If it's vindication, then I say you've had your revenge.You are entitled to it.That I can understand.

Slowly, still weak from the impact of my discovery, I manage to stand, supporting myself on wobbly legs.I don't trust my steadiness but make no move to sit.

I find it's time I start regaining my strength.

A surge of air rushes through me.I hate this feeling of weakness.I always have.What did you see when you looked at me?All those things I asked you to see?I hope so.

But then I don't.I don't want to become dependent, needy.Survival of the fittest was my motto for many years.It still is.How else do you suggest I get out of bed every morning?I need to survive, but I also need to adjust to doing so without you.

I need to be strong.I need you to see that I am strong.But I also need you.

I've become a walking contradiction.

It comes to a point where wanting and needing blend into one in the same.I suppose, out of everything, what I truly need is forgiveness.To speak my apology and take the outcome, whatever it is.

I don't deserve you.

How is it that simply knowing you were here can make me feel so much better?Knowing that you watched over me, heard me?What did you see?Do you feel pity?I don't think I can accept your pity.But I also don't expect it to be offered.Much like I don't expect you to be merciful, or even like what you see.Still want what you see.But at least you know, somewhere, wherever you are, that I know this now.

Right now…I can live on that.As for tomorrow, who can say?

My hopes are far too high, but I'm beginning to realize that even the most outlandish of goals can come true.Slowly, strength returns to me, and I am able to move without quivering.I stand in the doorway for a long time, embellishing myself in your scent, surprised by the comfort it gives.

How could I have not known this before?I spent years hating them, masking the sad reality that all the while I was one…just the same…seeing you no differently than they did, while you saw me in ways I never before fathomed.In kindness instead of respite.Do you know how much I needed that?How much I still need it?I appreciated you without knowing it for myself, without telling you how much it meant to me, still means to me.

Thank you.

I must ask another question…and hope you hear me.You heard me before, didn't you?Is it foolish to think you will again?

Why did you come by?Why do you still care?You're a monster, everyone knows that.Everyone except me, of course.They know it all right…they know everything.But tell me, what brought you here?What still brings you here?You know I deserve nothing from you.Ten plus years of neglect and you repay me in the kindest of ways.

You listen.Why?Now, especially now, why?

The answer I summarize is foolish and presumptuous, but it gives me comfort.At the moment, I don't care.I want to believe…and right now, I do…if only for a second, I allow myself this one indulgence, this one morbid, outlandish, laughable, schoolgirl-foolish thought.

It makes me smile.

Perhaps on some level, you need me, too.

***


	6. Chapter Six

I awake to the darkness with a startled breath lodged in my throat

I see her through the windows of her home, waking, passing.Quite assured she cannot see me, I make no effort to move, not fearing the aspect of plausible recognition.I have often perched on this very location in the days prior to our unfortunate departure from the late Paul Krendler's lake house, and never encountered a troublesome confrontation.

I wonder, knowing now what I do, how I might have reacted to her then, pressed against the refrigerator and refusing my offer, despite the confusion she revealed in her eyes.Though I do not conduct my behavior on absolutes, nor do I appreciate dwindling on past errors, this is an area of considerable curiosity.

My guilt refuses to grant me relief, though I have managed to place it in a darker chamber of my memory palace.I do not wish to consult it tonight.

Watching her now, allowed only brief glances as she passes an un-curtained window, I notice a severe change in her behavior.Though she remains solemn, there is a different air about her.Liberated.Released.

Hrm…perhaps hopeful?

I wish to see her eyes.Clarice hides her trouble well from the world, but never from me.I do not note this with arrogance, or even a particular pleasure.I do enjoy seeing into her, over her, however I know it has caused her life more turmoil than satisfaction.My own insight betrays me at such moments.Though I have never credited myself a partially hopeful being, I am willing to acknowledge that some of what I have interpreted might have originated from my own desires.

That is not a pleasing realization.This is perhaps the first time I yearn to be incorrect.I want her to need me, though the thought is ridiculous.Like myself, Clarice needs no one.

I wonder if she knows that.She is as strong as any individual I have ever known, and is without that remarkable dependency on others to function as a productive member of society.I admire that about her, I always have.Though now, I sense she doubts that wonderful quality.She feels she needs something, or someone.The foolish side of myself, what I whimsically label the bit of me getting too old for my own good, forbiddingly hopes such a figment of her creation has standards that meet my better qualities.

Foolish, yes, though not a dangerous aspiration.Such a craving would be threatening if I did not recognize its likelihood as minimal as I do.Even my aging self contains an element of rationalism.

Inwardly, I curse myself for my continuous presence here.For my refusal to leave her life.The best thing for us would be for me to turn away from this, to vainly attempt at wheedling her out of my head and allow her to continue with her life as healthily as possible, given what she has already endured.I am here out of selfishness…what I want as opposed to what I know is necessary.Such rudeness would have ended the life of any other bystander who stood aside to watch her construct her doom.Have I become as insufferable as those whelping pups that drool over her every move?Certainly not.I know I am acting much too harshly on myself, and note this is why I have avoided guilt in the past.

Is it that, or simply because none of my prior actions are worthy of my guilt?I suspect that is more probable.

How dryly amusing, as well as ironic.After a lifetime without regret, I suddenly attack myself, most severely.

For one sliver of a second, I allow an inkling of pity – not regret – but pity for my victims.I consider myself a strong-willed man, and have evidence enough to support it.To engage in battle with my own image is most brutal, and I find I am losing, whichever side of my subconscious I support.

I smile.After all these years, I have pointed that 'high powered perception' at myself and seen something I do not like.All for her.She is, after all, the great initiator.

My smile dissipates to a frown, regarding the darkness of her duplex now.It is a considerable hour of night, much time having passed since I watched her sleep.The peace she radiated remains with me, but also does the image of her broken form weeping against her Mustang.Though patient, I note it has been several hours since a full view was provided, and even then, my keen eyes were not quite keen enough to note what emotions I might find in hers.Her body language suggests submissiveness, but looks can be deceiving.I want to see her eyes, want to grasp what I might find, whether or not it is to my liking.I am in hopes the peace I saw upstairs remains with her.

I recognize the need to confirm whatever she is feeling before I take my leave for the evening.Therefore, in slowness, I stir from my post, moving for the first time in hours.

I pause when I stand before a window, allowed the image of her at last.The full image.She, too, is stationary, and appears to have been for an hour or so.I smile at the portrait she offers.

The peace remains with her, and for that I am most relieved.I am assured she cannot see me, therefore make no move to hurry away.I enjoy watching her, and find myself more than curious to discover what inspired this radical change of mood.

I implore her eyes hungrily.What I see astounds me.

She knows.

Ah!My clever girl, all the way to the end!She knows I am near, knows I have visited her, and on some level, expects me to again.I determine this by noting the expression on her face, one familiar to me, one used only with me, or on those occasions I have witnessed when my name is summoned by a colleague.

She thinks of me…with peace.

Penance.

I blink my realization.It becomes all too clear, and quite frankly takes my breath away.My guilt escalates to unimaginable heights, but not because of my faulted actions.No.Now I know the cause, the root of her pain.Alongside my intense reprieve, I also feel the burden at the tardiness of this comprehension.How could I have not seen it?

I note I will question my imminent understanding from this moment on.

She is not in pain because of what I have done; she is in pain because of what I have NOT done.Because I am not there, not with her, because I neglected to come back for her, neglected to see what concurred within her, neglected to witness and distinguish her sense of newfound knowledge.She has changed, molded into something I can never feasibly possess, never could want to possess.She is what I hope her to be, but not for me.Never for me.No, this is for her.

My little Starling…grown up at last.

She thought I'd forgotten her.Oh Clarice, how can you even believe that possible?

Though her realization into the world is not for me, I do note it was caused, at least in part, under my instruction.Her peace.Her liberation.Her happiness.Caused by me, caused and destroyed all in one blow.

I feel pride flutter, pride and knowledge.I force myself not to move, not to sweep in and take her now, to reassure her all will be well.I do this, perhaps foolishly, because I have seen something else now, something worth my attention.

Aside from her peace, I also see culpability.I feel the smile fall from my face.

She holds herself responsible for what occurred, for everything that has occurred.For this space between us, for the wrong in her life.How tragically ironic, and all the while I thought it was my fault.My darling, neither of us are to blame.I see that now.I should have seen it before, but I couldn't.

And not deserve me?This troubles me the most.I see it in her eyes, and it sends a sharp pain to my chest.She has likewise fought a terrific battle with herself, and lost.What little life is there was stirred from her peace.I thank that irrational part of myself for complying to watch over her tonight.She needs her sacrament, and deserves more than that.She deserves more than me, but I am all I can offer.It will never be enough.

Before I can see more, I force myself away.I cannot afford to stand by and ogle, not now.We've wasted too much time already.

Slowly, not wanting my anxiousness to hurry my pace and disturb my indisputable reputation for patience, something that has become more and more of a hazard, I move to the front porch.I conceal my scarred hand behind my back, the blemish all but healed.Still, she needs not to see it.I want no reminders of that evening now.

With slowness that tests my own patience, I raise my other hand to the door and offer three subtle knocks.

***


	7. Chapter Seven

I awake to the darkness with a startled breath lodged in my throat

I don't watch television often, but every time I do I'm reminded why I try to avoid it. Two thousand plus channels and nothing worth my time, as meaningless as it is. How typical. News, news, game show, 90210 rerun, M.A.S.H, news, news, and more news. 

I've had enough of the media never to care again what's going on in the world today. Corruption, death, lies, war…it's all the same. My story told and retold, masking either party to fit whichever crisis is currently on the roster. In the end, there's no story to retell. People insist on fighting the same battle over and over again, thinking somehow in their diluted reasoning, that it'll turn out okay. That everything will be fine if they make it their own and steal it from someone else, no matter how much they're warned not to. That this time, things will be different. I should know. Been there, most certainly done that. 

How many times now? I lose count. I don't care to know these days. It's an ever-present reminder of my stupidity. 

I seat here in the relative darkness of my living room, looking though not watching the television. Channel surfacing…they should make it an international sport. 'Calling all fathers' sort of thing. 

My thoughts are clouded. I know I should think of what I encountered upstairs, the aroma that was so…him. I know it was him. No one else could stir that sort of scent. He smells of expensive hand cream and cologne, imported from some fancy catalog that I have not only never heard of, but probably will never be able to afford. Hell, I could hardly afford the subscription, if I know him. 

Which I think I do. 

Think. Powerful word. Powerful...frightening word. 

Things change. People change. I told Pearsall a while back that the Drumgo killing changed me. Huh. I don't feel changed. At least I didn't…not until he left. 

Not until I made my final error. 

I've stopped talking to him now, the image of him in my head. It seems logical, as he most certainly heard me. Well, I don't want to flatter myself. He heard something, that much is clear. Whether or not it was my desperate call for help, I don't know. 

I'm at the most incredible…peace. Even though he's not here, I feel as though he's watching over me. Hell, maybe he is. Maybe he's right outside, waiting for me. Waiting to see just how clueless I can be. And to think, I thought he'd forgotten all about me. I suppose that statement was provoked from my self-pity, but nonetheless, I felt it. I still feel it to a degree. Now that I have my peace, my rest, I wonder if he'll see his job is done and return to his world of theater and opera, expensive wines and foods I can barely pronounce. Now that he sees I am calm and in control of myself, will he return to his side of the globe? 

I forbid myself to send any more questions into the void. No, I can be patient. Laugh as you will, I suppose the thought is rather ludicrous. I wasn't patient enough to listen to his reasoning, to consider the offer before I opened my big yap. But here I am, so close to him, it seems. He's here somewhere in this town. How long has he been here? Since I asked my question? I don't know…and that unsettles me. Did my instability draw him out of hiding, or did I? Just me. Plain ole Clarice. Take it or leave it. 

I hope for the latter. He'd probably kill me as opposed to seeing me as broken as I've recently felt. And I deserve it, I won't pretend otherwise. I deserve all I get. Coming to terms with that is difficult, but not nearly as hard as deciding exactly *why* I deserve it. 

I know that already. 

My self-woe abandons me, though I know to expect it back anytime. Knocking on my door, anticipating my knowing gaze as it overwhelms me again. Or will he save me before it reaches that point? I came to this conclusion by myself, and perhaps that's how I should execute it. 

My decisions made for me, and not by Mr. Darkness or anybody else. I've made up my mind, and I know what I want. 

Do you still want me? 

Damn! I promised myself no more questions. It's too late for that, too late for anything. He's made me strong again, at least for the moment. I need to survive on that, to get by on what I can before the ache returns. I feel strong now, and I need to. I need to feel as though I could conquer the world a thousand times over before stopping for a water break. I need to feel worthy of something. Perhaps then, in the mindset of Clarice Starling, I could prove to him that my change of heart is not out of grief, or loneliness, or some sad excuse for a love life I've only recently decided to compensate. So much more than that. 

Do you see it? Do you want it? 

I'm a moth fighting over a flame, and I'll continue to do so until it kills me. Already I feel the fire spread across me, quenched only when I sense him near. It's scary, downright disconcerting that he holds such a power over me. I spent years denying it, and where did it get me? 

Hah! My self-pity has returned. Glad you could make it. Only now, it's in the form of anger. Anger at myself for not seeing this sooner. Anger that has been repressed for, ten years, is it? Come out of hiding, I won't shun you away. 

Take him out of the big picture and all the pieces collapse like an unsteady deck of cards. How could I not have seen this? How? Even what has happened today, right under my nose. The cards were lying in pieces, and he came to place them together. Now he's gone again, and one by one, the levels of myself are stripped away. So long. Farewell. Auf wiedersehen, goodnight. I hate to go and leave this pretty sight… 

Damn Julie Andrews movie. 

I suppose my anger is misplaced. I'm angrier now at how weak I've allowed myself to become. How dependent on another person I am for my happiness. He's seen me like this, no doubt, and I'm sure it sickens him. The woman he left was not this scattered. No, she was the idiot. I am the redefined idiot, the enlightened numbskull, the supremacy of all my troubles. My own worst enemy. 

When you're this angry, I suppose it's difficult to pinpoint any direct cause. 

I'd like to vent my frustration and scream my apologies, but I fear that would bid the last of my sanity farewell. I must contain something to hold onto. If I am to be left here with nothing, then fine. I can deal with that. It'll be hard, but I will survive. I owe it to us both to survive. 

Still, in order to bring me back to that divine level of serenity, all I must do is consider that he was here today, watching me as I slept, as I dreamt of him. I wonder for the millionth time what he saw besides fatigue and self-inflicted pain. I asked him several nights ago if he could taste my tears, if he could see what I repressed, and had been repressing since he left me. Since I asked him to leave me. 

Should've handed me the cleaver and save him the trouble. How dare he hurt himself over me?! How dare he?! God, it makes me ache all over. For ten years, he suffered the blows, the defeats, the let downs, the rejections, the wear and tear of time, and when he was presented with me, basking in my confusion and all the glory stupidity brings, he hurt himself above me. He bleeds for me. He's bled too long. It's my turn now. 

If my mind were a tangible thing that I could see, the subconscious I've been beating up forever, I'm sure I'd be in the hospital. However, that barely compares to what I've discovered in the daylight, in processed thoughts that I haven't shunned. I know my crime, and I accept it. 

There should be AA meetings for this sort of thing. Hello, my name is Clarice Starling, and I'm a Lecteraholic. 

Oh, take me away and leave me be! Be gone with you, wretched anger, the foul stench of self-hatred. I don't deserve even you! Leave me to the darkness, the ritual human sacrifice, the offering to the gods so that no other earthly bound woman suffers my flaws, my fate. Escape while you can! 

At this point, I don't know whether to laugh, cry, or shoot myself. Amazing how you can work yourself to tears, giggles, and suicide all in one line of irrational thinking. 

Why haven't I been laughing this last decade? Speaking of irrational thinking… 

Still, in the midst of everything. Of all my returning patrons from the self-pity department, and even passed my anger, there is peace. Penance, serenity…for he was here. And I know…I know…despite everything, everything I don't deserve, everything…he will be back. 

Surprisingly, after this round with myself, I find me, wholly me, the victor. It's a pliable sensation, one I'll have to get used to. 

Not now, though. Was that in my head, or did someone just knock? 

Knock…knock…knock… 

No, definitely someone knocked. Hum. I try to remember if I ordered pizza tonight, knowing somewhere I elected against it. Perhaps it's another journalist. Someone else to throw out. There's always that one person begging for the full story. When will they learn I'm not a sellout? Especially now…what good would it do? 

Unhurriedly, I stand, halfway hoping they'll go away if I don't answer immediately. I'm in no mood for callers. What the hell time is it, anyway? Slightly past midnight…who comes over at this hour? 

The same type of person who expects *me* to answer the door. Hrm…to let them in nicely? Sure…why not. Besides, if they are up to cause trouble, I'm hardly in a position to care. 

I pause at the door, feeling my skin tingle. Is it just me, or did the room get colder? Or hotter? I can't tell anymore. 

Maybe I should reconsider therapy. 

Undoing the lock, I decide after I take care of this I should go to bed. Try to get a good night's sleep with my pristine tranquility, hoping it lasts until morning. I'm tired…very tired. Nights of neglected rest beg me for a reprise. I know I can slumber tonight, in the silence of the lambs. Maybe even my own screams will diminish. Just tonight. 

Sleep will be appreciated. 

Expecting my visitor to have discouraged and left, I move to open the door. 

I pause. 

My hear stops, then leaps. 

My breath catches in my throat. 

My eyes widen, though I do not know what they reveal. 

It's him. 

***


	8. Chapter Eight

I awake to the darkness with a startled breath lodged in my throat

Patience overcomes me as I await her to open the door, knowing inwardly perhaps my timing is a tad awkward.However, I do not allow it to interfere, lest I see again what I saw through her window.That abandonment and self-hatred I have forced her to endure.

She is wise to take her time.After all, only true psychopaths call at this hour.I doubt she is expecting company.

True psychopaths…hmm…that makes me smile a bit.

I can smell her on the other side of the door, the last physical barrier I intend to cross tonight.I wonder what she is thinking as my nostrils flare to take in her scent, if her thoughts have gone astray from what I witnessed outside.Somehow, I doubt it.Clarice maintains intense focus on anything she should decide to consider, despite the interruptions.

I hear her as she reaches for the knob, and force myself to a perfected standstill as the door swings open.I watch her eyes for reaction before speaking, wanting to intake the sight of her.What I see excites me.The rawness of her emotions speaks well in place of words.I applaud myself on having made a habit of reading her eyes for such revelations.

A million things flood into her features, each speaking to me clearly.I release a breath slowly, still offering no words, watching her as she stumbles and clings to the door.I force myself to not go to her.No, there's still something else.I want her to speak first, to hear her voice alone…not reflecting off mine.

After the foray of surprise abandons her, I am gratified with the most contented look of relief I have ever known a human being to display.It astounds me, frankly, and *nothing* astounds me.Without moving, I sense her pulse has exhilarated terrifically, and I can nearly hear her heart pounding in all its glory.

The pounds of relief.

Finally, parting her lovely lips, she manages to choke out a greeting that only reflects her astonishment, as though newly rekindled, but something else."Hello."

The greeting sounds so connubial that I nearly laugh.Laugh in the middle of this.What an appalling notion.Ashamedly, I banish that thought.

"Clarice…" I whisper in reply, enjoying the roll of her name off my tongue.I make it a priority to accentuate each syllable in her name, for it gives me such pleasure to say.

When I see her eyes glitter, I realize it's with more than tears.

Don't cry.Please don't cry.

She indeed makes a valiant effort not to cry, biting her lip as if to defer attention from her overworked emotions to subtle pain.This seems to work for a minute.Her chest heaves as she shudders a breath, the air already scented with her unshed tears.It nearly drives me over the edge.

I allow her a minute of collection, knowing on some level, she requires no help from me.When she feels comfortable, she relinquishes hold on the door, moving back as if to test her balance."I'm sorry," she says, and I wonder if we've already approached the line of apologies.That thought is dismissed shortly."Come in…" she stands aside to provide me room to pass.

I enter the home slowly, wanting to savor this reaction a moment longer.The relative warmth of her duplex is comfortable.I take a minute to breathe in the air that is intensely her, enjoying its taste.When she moves past me, I sense she has not entirely come to terms with my presence here.I follow.

I decide to speak, to ease her as well as the tension."Clarice, I…"

"Just…give me a minute," she asks softly, moving to the small recliner she slumbered in the night of my last visit.I take a minute to note the week-old cartons of Chinese take-out that seem to have made her coffee table a permanent residence.

I elect to sit as well, though I'm not quite that willing to allow so much space between us.I want to be within her reach, and her within mine, should the need arise.Thus, I brush the cartons aside and sit across from her, knowing my somewhat brutal gaze might do more damage than good, but I cannot help myself.

I still haven't come to terms, seeing her so near after a considerable time apart.Apart of me suspected I would never visit her again, and though I defied that this afternoon, I *knew* it was best to avoid direct communication.

I find myself quite ignorant in my old age.That provides me with some morbid amusement.

"I…" she starts to speak, shaking her head."I can't believe you're here."

"You knew I came by before," I remind her softly."Do forgive me for inviting myself in, but I was concerned."

"Dr. Lecter…"

The formality makes me flinch inwardly.She is far beyond the girl that stood before me in the Baltimore Asylum where such courtesies were needed, far beyond anything I ever thought I could mold her into."Clarice, please.I do believe we've know each other long enough to reduce to first names, don't you think?"

She looks stunned at this request, but I offer no lenience."All right, then," she says a minute later."Hannibal..." Ah…hearing her speak it in consciousness, while she is alert, looking at me…it provides a sensation I have never before experienced.

She senses this and smiles.A smile.I drink the sight, finding it to fulfill me to the fullest.I don't believe she has ever smiled at me, not like this.

"Hannibal," she repeats, visibly having difficulty with words.I offer my patience.There is nothing else."I was…there's so much…"She releases a breath and shakes her head."I'm sorry."

The true apology now.Though it lacked the common remorseful tone, omitted in a more or less casual breath, I find it to cut with sharpness I never wish to grow accustomed to.I know she is sincere.Reading it through her eyes now, as well as everything I witnessed today.

I wish to soothe, to reassure her there is nothing she has done that requires an ode to forgiveness.If there was, it was granted long ago.My own burden still weighs heavy on my shoulders.I resist the urge to grasp her once more, finding the temptation growing exceedingly difficult to ignore.

"Clarice," I reply, sighing, "Clarice, there is nothing that you have done to certify an apology."

"Of course there is!" she argues, not bothering, though, to remind me why exactly she came to this conclusion.I know too well.We both do.

"I hold you accountable for nothing," I say after a minute."I never have.It does so pain me to see you like this."

"Really?" she asked, genuine question aligning her voice."I thought surely you saw me weak…unfit."The words take me aback, and I'm glad when she continues, allowing me to summarize a reply."I haven't been able to function…I've settled into such a wave of…depression."

"Clarice, you are not and never have been weak," I retort, still focused on her earlier admittance."A lesser person would break after what you went through, after *everything* you've been through.You haven't."I sigh."In truth, I had convinced myself that I was at fault for your life's crisis.After all, I haven't exactly been a reliable influence."

It feels odd to scold myself.

She looks at me blankly, finding my confession as outlandish as I found hers."I control my life, Hannibal," she counters firmly.I am glad to see resolution in her eyes."There's nothing that you did that I didn't on some level allow, or provoke."

I know this is true.I find it charming that she feels compelled to reassure me, and likewise that I need that reassurance.

A peaceful air settles over us.Apologies and professions are safely out of the way.

I allow myself a genuine wonder at what is to occur to next.Finding time so indisposed should unnerve me, but indeed it does just the opposite.I savor these moments with Clarice as though they will be my last.

But meeting her eyes, I am left with an inkling.Self-control prods me further.The silence is companionable, though it seems to be in league with tension.Imploring her expression, I am gratified.

These moments will *not* be our last.

***


	9. Chapter Nine

I awake to the darkness with a startled breath lodged in my throat

He's here, he's really here.Oh God, don't tell me I'm dreaming.

Knowing the Almighty's sick sense of humor and love of perversion, I wouldn't be a tad bit surprised.It makes me want to shake my fist at the ceiling, but I refrain from doing so.

A peaceful air has settled over us…the awkwardness of what was and wasn't our shared and separate faults now in the past.I don't wish to dwell on them, and I don't think he does, either.Now that they're behind us, I hope to move onto other things.

He looks at me as though I'm liable to break, should he touch me.It's bizarre, watching the inward struggle of a man that hides emotion so well.It doesn't make me uncomfortable…rather it's reassuring that even the strongest of us are still human.

But I wish he'd touch me.It looks like he wants to.I wonder what keeps him at bay.Perhaps I'm more fragile than I appear.Maybe I will break; crumple into a thousand pieces, nestled finally in the warmth of his embrace.The way I've felt the passed few days, that seems entirely plausible.

And then it doesn't…strange how you can go from feeling like the dirt under someone's shoe to amazingly free and enlightened only a matter of seconds.

The things he's told me remain an enigma.It's ironic, really.I've called for him every night since he left me, thinking surely he would never want to speak to me again for what I did to him.Now it appears he felt everything that happened was his burden, his blame.Maybe if we stopped trying to take the fault, we could get to what is really important.After all, that's over with now, isn't it?Somehow, he is here.Sitting there before me.

I don't want to blink for fear he'll disappear.After all, I have felt nothing of his touch.In the disillusioned state of my radical thinking, it seems rational to me that he might not be here at all.Perhaps I've lost my mind and this is the final torment.A sense of false closure, false hope.After all, I've certainly *felt* nothing to suggest otherwise. 

Let it go, I silently urge.Just give me some goddamn sign that you're real! Real, and mine now.

The silence we share is peaceful, and I enjoy it at first.Sometimes, there are things too important to trust with the English language, or any language, for that matter.I much prefer to read his eyes, though I know my knack for it is a little out of practice, if it ever amounted to anything in the big picture at all.

As time passes, though, I feel the need for silence leaves us.I need more reassurance that I have not lost my wits.The ticking of the grandfather clock in the hallway suddenly intensifies, as some demented dream that once whatever hour chimes, he will disappear and I'll never see him again.

I feel the same tears that tempted me outside return, and again, receive his look that silently implores me not shed them.Well fine!I won't cry if you don't disappear.No, I can't promise that.Knowing that this *isn't* a dream might stir me to more emotion than I can handle.It's a shame I never took any anger management classes.Maybe if I had exercised my feelings more in the past, I wouldn't be this overwhelmed.

Overwhelmed isn't the right word, but it's all I have right now.I'm battling the desires to scream, cry, laugh, faint, and growl in aggravation.

He still hasn't touched me, and my patience is wearing thin.

The silence becomes heavy, though his gaze doesn't falter.It's not so different than the look he issued me some ten years back while he implored me to tell him of the Montana ranch, of the sheep and their screaming.He's trying to read my eyes, and knowing me and the rather pitiful way I allow myself to be examined, he's come to some conclusion.

You heard me before, didn't you?All those times I called to you…why else would you be here?Well, hear me now.I need to feel you more than anything.Let me know you're here.That I'm *not* out of my mind.That I have some reason to be hopeful.

How is it you can hear me when you're miles away, but can't *see* what I need when you're right here?

I wonder, truly, what's holding him back.

The odd flow of events has finally gotten to me.He's here, but still not giving me what I need.Lord knows I probably deserve it.I feel a tear trickle over my upper lip and curse myself for letting it get to me.But I can't help it.How can I?

I hear him sigh and mutter my name.It's the first thing I've heard from him in a few minutes.Slowly, he withdraws a handkerchief and hands it to me.I see in his eyes, self-torment at watching me cry.The temptation is upon me to start some real water-works, but I refrain.There's something else…something else…

As I reach to take the handkerchief from him, our fingers brush as they did in Memphis.I feel static run through me at the touch, and look up, astonished when he doesn't disappear.Then I know I cannot control it, cannot help myself. Even if I wanted to, which I am unashamed to admit, I don't.

I hear myself release something of a muffled sob as I tumble forward, wrapping my arms around his neck and loving the way his warmth absorbs me wholly.The handkerchief forgotten, I can't help the tears that flow now.Not out of sadness, or loss, but of discovery.He's here, really here, and by God, he's not going anywhere.Not unless it's with me.

When I feel his arms encircle me, I'm lost.Completely lost.A breath of release drifts from his lips, one of the last constraint, and I sense the heavy relief in which he holds me.Big coward.

I hear myself muttering repeatedly:"You're real, you're real, you're really here," but I receive nothing more than a tightened embrace in reply.I'm glad, for verbal confirmation is not needed.We're beyond that, so beyond that, and have been for as long as I can remember.What I say is for my benefit, not his. 

After a minute, still holding each other, perhaps frightened to let go, I pull away cautiously.He does not relinquish his arms, and for that I am glad.I'm not ready to leave this warmth, even if it is only for a little while.A few seconds after ten years can seem like a lifetime.

There *is* something else I need, something before anything more can pass.

I need his word.

"Promise me something, will you?" I ask, pleased when I don't have to fight for words, though I am aware of the drying tears on my cheeks.

Slowly, he withdraws his right arm, keeping me steady in the other, and runs his hand soothingly over my face, wiping the reminisce of my outburst away, as if to signify a new beginning.The feeling all in itself makes me want to cry again.I know I'll never tire of his touch.

"Yes?" he breathes in reply a minute later.

"If you plan on leaving…take me with you."

My request sounds amateur on my tongue, though that does not change my need of confirmation.When I expect him to laugh or scorn, he doesn't, rather smiles nicely.He runs his free hand through my hair, memorizing my contours with touch rather than eyesight.

I love the feeling.

"I'm sorry you felt the need to ask," he reassures me."I promise, Clarice."

That's all I need.I feel myself smile before moving to embrace him once again, needing nothing more than to sit here tonight, with his promise, in the warm comfort of his arms.

I sense we want the same.Nothing further.Not tonight.This peace should go undisturbed for no reason.I don't care how long I remain here, just as long as he's with me.

After all…there's always tomorrow.

FIN


End file.
